"MacLeod." MacLeod pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder, leaving his hands free for the chop-chop-chopping of celery stalks. The caller hesitated a moment, then said,

"Hi MacLeod, it's Adam."

"Adam!" MacLeod put down the knife and gripped the phone receiver. He would have preferred his response to sound more hearty. Instead he sounded worried. "How ... are you?"

There was a lot in the question.

"Okay."

And nothing in the answer. MacLeod sighed. "Are you and Grossman talking?"

Silence. Oh ho, not supposed to bring that up, huh?

"Yeah. Look, MacLeod ... would you ... come over? Here?"

Well, that had to be the most awkward invitation MacLeod had ever heard. One of them, anyway. And no, he wouldn't like. He had a wonderful broth simmering, and chicken breasts ready for the oven. Outside, the weather had taken a sudden wintry turn, and the rainclouds had that look which said snow, making the oven-heated loft all the more cozy.

"You could come over here," he was amazed to hear himself offer to a murderer. "I'm making lunch."

"Nooo, thanks. I'm uh, some other time." Damn. The man was retreating. Since when was Methos so ... timid? It must be important.

"Wait, Adam, what is it?" Cards on the table. Methos wouldn't call MacLeod up for a social visit. Too much lay between them. And MacLeod had made it clear that he was willing to help.

"I just need some help lifting something down."

"You need help lifting something down?" he said, disbelief in his tone. Was this really what Methos had called him for?

"Yeah," Methos said.

"So, ask a neighbor or someone."

"No, you or Joe would be best. And it's a little beyond Joe."

MacLeod eyed his chicken breasts regretfully. "Okay, Methos, I'll bite. What is it?"

"My journals. Grossman wants to know some things I can't remember."

MacLeod turned off the stove.

II

Methos wasn't kidding. He did need help getting his journals down. He had them stored in locked metal coffers stacked eight feet high in a climate-controlled pre-fab shed in his backyard. The curator in MacLeod was impressed with the dehumidifying climate control system dominating the shed. The faint aroma in the air was probably pesticide.

MacLeod fussed over the air-conditioning machine, asking questions about its operation and expense. Methos answered casually, and MacLeod let him avoid discussing the heavy aluminum double handled safes the shed held, until he was ready. Finally Methos indicated the one he needed, and the two of them unstacked and restacked in order to extract it. It took both of them to carry it into the townhouse.

"Methos, I can't believe you don't have this stuff on disks."

"'This stuff' is too important to me to put on magnetic, MacLeod; I was waiting for writable optical media. It will take time. I can't exactly get someone in."

They dropped the case on Methos's living room floor. Its weight shook the room. Methos promptly sat on it. "Well, thanks, MacLeod. You want a beer?"

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"Yes, later. Or... how about that beer?" Methos was suddenly skittish - a colt in a thunderstorm. He jumped up and practically bolted for the kitchen. MacLeod let him bring him a beer. He fixed his gaze on the other immortal, who looked away.

"So, open it up," MacLeod suggested.

"Why?"

"Wasn't that the idea? I did not leave my lunch uncooked to come over here and not see your journals."

"You want to see them?" Methos seemed surprised.

"Of course."

Methos considered this, then slowly turned and knelt before the case. He paused for a long moment then reached forward to the combination dial. He moved slowly as he raised the lid, in ... what? Reverence? Apprehension?

Inside were leather bound books - maybe two dozen. MacLeod's practiced eye dated them at more than a century. Closer to two, probably, but certainly not 2500 years old. Methos must have copied them over.

"Well, there, you see them." Methos showed no inclination to touch them.

In deference to Methos's mood, MacLeod spoke quietly. "What does Grossman need to know?"

Methos didn't move, but something about him went rigid. He didn't answer.

"You're not going to tell me, are you."

"No."

"How can I help?"

"You can't. You already have. Thanks."

MacLeod took a drink of his beer and walked over to look out the front window. It wasn't as if he didn't have other plans for the day. He was preparing to move back to Paris. Paris, where the memories of Tessa were only good ones, and did not include muggers and gunshots. At least not so much. He had noticed the difference during his brief stay on the barge after his pursuit of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had ended so spectacularly in Bordeaux. He had packing to do.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that Methos had meant to ask for some other help. He thought of the shattered, grieving woman Cassandra had become when she learned that her former captors still lived. His compassionate heart ached for her, and for himself. Her millennia old grief for the loss of her tribe reminded MacLeod so sharply of the slaughter of the Lakota tribe who had been his people for a time.

Little Deer. He toasted her sadly with his beer. His own grief and lust for revenge had damaged him so much before Coltec took it away. Who could save Cassandra from that now that Coltec was gone? Could Grossman? Well, MacLeod was determined to give him every opportunity. He looked back at Methos. That enigmatic legend which had done this to her mustn't be allowed to shirk his responsibility.

MacLeod set his beer down and returned to where Methos still sat, regarding the metal case as if it held a nest of vipers. MacLeod scooped up one of the volumes and pivoted to guard his prize from any intercepting grab. Retreating out of reach, he turned back to Methos. Methos merely smiled at him. Why didn't the man try to protect his privacy? MacLeod hefted the volume, threatening to open it.

Nothing.

Damn. Now he'd have to follow through, and actually he had no intention of reading what amounted to someone else's diary. He opened the tome, and allowed the defeat. "What is this?" he scowled.

"That one? Hittite."

"You write your journals in Hittite."

"I write my journals in a variety of dead languages. Keeps my hand in and it's safer."

"I thought Kalas could read them." MacLeod restored the journal to its owner, who replaced it in the case.

"He read the ancient Greek. Not dead enough, apparently. Be glad you can't read it, MacLeod," he added, his back to the Highlander. "It's pretty horrific. Nothing you'd want to read alone at night in a thunderstorm."

Alone. Maybe MacLeod could help. He stood near the kneeling man. "Methos, you're doing the right thing," he said.

Methos's expression hardened. "Don't," he said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't imagine you know why I'm doing this, MacLeod."

MacLeod began a slow smile.

"What?" Methos demanded.

"I know what you're going to say."

"Oh?"

"You're going to say you're just being practical."

Methos looked irritated. "That's right. I don't give a damn about Cassandra. I just don't want her hunting my head."

"Right."

"That's right! MacLeod, you're seeing what you want to see."

"Am I?"

"A week ago you saw a murdering monster. Now you're seeing what? Compassion or something? Cut it out."

"Okay."

"Okay. Right. So, don't you need to get back to your lunch?"

"Too late. It's all put away."

"Yeah, I noticed you didn't bring any of it over here."

MacLeod bit back the sarcastic answer which presented itself, and instead said, "I wish I had. You don't look like you've been eating much."

He thought he had given the words just the right tone of off-handedness, but Methos shot him a suspicious look. MacLeod was saddened to realize that Methos had not expected him to say something kind. He returned to the window. The rain was back. Not snow, after all.

"Methos, I'm not leaving until you find what Grossman needs." He turned to face Death sitting cross legged and holding a beer bottle. "I'm going to sit there on your sofa and read a book while you read your horror novels."

"MacLeod..." the words trailed off as Methos studied the younger immortal. His scrutiny was oddly intense, causing the hair on MacLeod's arms to stand up. He wondered what the other man was seeing. Whatever it was, Methos dropped his objection and looked down at his beer. "They're much worse than horror novels," he confided. Then he turned such an unguarded, vulnerable expression on the Highlander that it made MacLeod's throat constrict. "Because these aren't fiction, and I know the monster intimately."

"Get to work," MacLeod said softly.

III

Some time later, MacLeod looked up from his book to see Methos taking notes from one of his journals. Using his left hand.

"Methos, you aren't left-handed, are you?" he asked. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He froze, appalled at his faux pas. Knowing the true handedness of an opponent was a real edge to a world-class swordfighter - which most immortals who survived more than a century certainly were. If Methos had been feigning right-handedness, MacLeod had just violated his privacy as much as if he had read his journals. And in a more threatening way.

MacLeod drew breath to take it back, say it didn't matter, something, but stopped, uncertain. Methos looked at him, poker-faced. The silence between them lasted just a bit too long before Methos said, "No, I'm ambidextrous." He gave MacLeod a little half-smile and returned to his reading.

MacLeod stood and headed for the kitchen, more embarrassed than he had been in a long time. He should never have asked that. They were immortals. There can be only one. Alone on the tile floor, MacLeod cursed the part of him which had to be taking stock, assessing, even his friends. Even now, that calculating part of him would not pause. It reviewed the times he had sparred with the 5000 year old man, reviewed scenes of Methos holding a paintbrush, Methos reaching for a beer, Methos fighting Silas. Ambidexterity was no particular advantage - not when every warrior studied to be equally skilled with both hands- unless your opponent was assuming handedness. Methos had just trusted MacLeod with this knowledge, this edge.

Of course, he could be lying, that treacherous part of him assessed. Left-handedness was more common than true ambidexterity. The little-half smile Methos had given seemed to acknowledge that neither of them dared expect to trust or be trusted on this subject. But somehow MacLeod was certain that Methos had just handed him his head on a platter, if he wanted it. And not for the first time.

He retrieved more beer and returned to the living room in an uneasy state of mind. Methos accepted the new beer, standing. The coffer was closed and he held his notebook tucked under an arm.

"Done?"

"Yes."

Well, he had done it before dark. The gray of the day made it difficult to judge where the sun was, but it was still up. The gray was reflected on the oldest immortal's face.

"So now you call Grossman."

"Yeah." Methos did not sound eager.

"Why don't you take the cordless into the bedroom?"

"Why don't I wait and call him after you've gone home?"

"Because you'll still need help putting that case back."

"We could do that tomorrow."

"Who says I'm free tomorrow? You can't wait much longer - it's three hours later in New York."

"I know what time it is!" Methos snapped.

MacLeod sat down very deliberately on the sofa and picked up his book. Methos glared. If he went into full rebellion, MacLeod would have little choice but to leave and hope he would make the phone call. He mustn't push. After a bit, he turned a page he hadn't actually read.

Methos sighed, took the cordless phone into the bedroom, and shut the door, a little more loudly than was necessary. MacLeod smiled.

The gray day turned into a gray night as MacLeod finished the book. A tapping sound began at the window as the rain turned to sleet. As he reached to turn on a lamp, MacLeod gave a heartfelt prayer of thanks for central heating and electric lights. Then, one of the few other people who had lived most of his life before such things, entered the room. He considered MacLeod with eyes dark with suspicion. "He wants to talk to you," he said, holding out the phone.

IV

MacLeod refused to be secretive about his end of the phone conversation, and he remained sitting on the sofa. Methos moved restlessly around the townhouse, unable to pretend there was anywhere where he wasn't overhearing. When MacLeod was finished talking to Methos's old friend, he handed the phone back to its deeply suspicious owner, and passed on Grossman's message. Methos did not receive it well.

"No! Absolutely not!" Methos's eyes flashed.

"What do you mean?"

"What part wasn't clear, MacLeod? No! No, nein, nyet, ieh..." Methos's refusal flowed into languages MacLeod didn't speak. Dead ones, probably. "I am not meeting with her! Why should I?"

"Because, Methos ..."

"I told him no. Why did he involve you?!"

"He said I should explain it because I was your friend ..."

"No! I get nothing out of this! I can't even believe she wants to do it! And not on holy ground?! It's insane!"

That part made MacLeod uneasy, too. He tried again to explain, "He says meeting on holy ground shows too much distrust."

"Of course it shows distrust! That's why we do it. This whole situation reeks of distrust. She tried to murder me, MacLeod! I am not going anywhere near her!"

MacLeod tried to keep a rein on his temper. "I thought you were willing to help her. Make some amends ..."

"I was willing to let David help her! I am not willing to eviscerate myself for her! Fuck her!"

"And how many times did you eviscerate her? Rape her, torture her?" Temper lost, MacLeod's hands curled into fists. "You owe her this!"

Methos went still. "Get out," he spat.

"No."

MacLeod had had centuries of practice at judging how close another man was to violence. Not for the first time, he wondered where Methos kept his sword. Surely he wouldn't ...

He didn't. But he did scoop up the nearest weapon he could find, a lamp, and hurl it at the Highlander. MacLeod was ready, and he avoided the missile easily. It crashed expensively against the stereo. Never taking his gaze from Methos, MacLeod registered the successive crashes of a speaker, a stack of CDs, and a vase. And he threw it right-handed.

MacLeod was glad that he no longer felt the hot-blooded furies of his youth which had demanded an immediate and furious retaliation for any physical affront. He remembered a teaching of May-Ling's which had resonated strongly with his fundamental chivalry. When you are very strong, you must practice great restraint.

He uncurled his fists and opened his palms toward his friend. "Methos," he said, both appeal and apology.

"Get out," the other immortal ordered again, quietly. He made no move to close. If MacLeod was reading past the fury on his face correctly, Methos even looked chagrined. Oh, my friend, not everything you do is calculated, is it.

"You invited me here, remember?"

"Which gives you the right to suck my blood, is that it?" Methos hissed. MacLeod looked at Methos helplessly. He wanted to leave. Methos wanted him to leave. Maybe it would be best. But...

"If I go, will you still be here tomorrow?"

"Not a chance in hell." Methos rubbed his eyes. MacLeod laughed, a short bark torn from him by the unexpected honesty of the answer. Methos looked up.

MacLeod gestured around the room. "You'll have a long night. Want some help?"

V

In the end, Methos agreed to be bought off with booze. Half apology, half bribe, both men knew MacLeod was buying. It was not easy to get two good sized immortals drunk and keep them that way, nor was it inexpensive. Methos drank, MacLeod paid, and Joe profited.

But in the morning the problem had not gone away. Methos would still rather spend a millennium in the Himalayas than face Cassandra. And MacLeod could hardly tie him up. He needed to talk to Grossman.

VI

"Mr. MacLeod, you seem like a good man. Doesn't it bother you, what he was?"

Yes, of course it did. MacLeod knew exactly how Grossman felt.

"Yes," he managed, struggling with his own feelings. He shifted the phone to his other ear. "But it was such a long time ago."

A part of him rose up in fury at the conciliatory words. Would that make a difference to the people he murdered? it roared. What if it were only a century ago? Or a decade? How does time make it all right?

"People change," he added, to Grossman and to himself.

"Yes," Grossman agreed, a note of uncertainty in his tone. "I have known people to change a great deal in just an ordinary lifetime, but ..." He paused. "It's not common, this much change."

MacLeod sighed, relieved to hear his own concerns coming from someone else. Joe had done little but defend Methos blindly, even when he knew the worst. He'd said something about "your gut". But MacLeod hadn't felt he could afford to depend on only gut feelings; not when he might have to decide whether or not to kill a friend. Again. "He's not a common man," he said.

"You mean, because he is Methos? I admit ..." Whatever it was, Grossman didn't admit it. "It shouldn't make any difference."

"No, what I meant was, it may be a lot of change, but he's had a lot of time."

"Yes, of course," Grossman agreed, tentatively. "Even Cassandra seems to me like something out of legend."

"She is." MacLeod smiled fondly. Tired of worrying about Methos, he asked what he had refrained from asking before. "Is Cassandra with you? Is she all right?"

"She is here in New York. She is very depressed. Her belief in Adam's ..." He corrected himself, sounding ever so slightly awed. "Methos's evil was a very important part of her view of the world."

Be careful, David. MacLeod thought, Show him any awe and he'll shock you out of it. Then he heard what the man had said.

"So you think Cassandra thinks differently of him now?"

"I can't say what she thinks," he responded, "but I am sure she wants to understand what has happened to her."

"In Bordeaux?" MacLeod was puzzled. What was to not understand?

"Yes. She has little doubt about what happened to her at the hands of these men before that."

Little doubt, indeed. MacLeod reminded himself that Grossman was just now hearing the horrible, bloody, merciless story of Cassandra's early life. The story which had incensed MacLeod and made him hate one of his best friends. A story Methos had never refuted.

"Mr. MacLeod, you say Adam refuses this meeting."

"Oh, yes."

"Can you tell me ... how do you think he views Cassandra?"

Great, MacLeod thought, you won't tell me what Cassandra thinks, but you want me to tell you what Methos thinks.

One of a thousand regrets, MacLeod.

"I think he's afraid of her. I also think he sees her as a very painful reminder of his past ."

"I was afraid of that. He is mistaken. She is a gift of the Lord to him."

"A ... gift?"

"She is a survivor of his crimes. The only one. She carries the memories of all his dead. She needs to unburden herself of that, and he... she can represent them all to him. He must do right by her."

"Well, I can't explain it to him. I'm not sure I even understand you."

"Oh no, it's not for you to explain. I'm sorry. That is my place. Thank you for calling."

"Grossman, wait!"

"Call me Mel, please."

Mel? "Mel?"

"I'm not using David, at the moment. I am the son of David Grossman's nephew."

"Okay, Mel," MacLeod acquiesced, "do you have Cassandra's number?"

"Mr. MacLeod," Grossman said, not unkindly, "she has yours."

VII

So she is mad at me. MacLeod chewed over his own actions as he packed his favorite glassware in a shipping box. If only he could talk to her. Joe would know where she was. Immediately after Bordeaux, Joe could tell MacLeod nothing of her whereabouts - all Watchers had been pulled off the Horsemen case, for their own safety. If a global catastrophe had begun, they would have other concerns than chronicling it. It still gave MacLeod a chill to think how close they had all come to Armageddon. Cassandra and he had gone to do battle to prevent, well, the end of the world, abandoned even by their shadows.

Then he had lost her. She probably felt he had betrayed her. But she had obviously resurfaced in New York. The Watchers would have her location by now.

He didn't want to ask Joe. There were other options. New York. Hmm. Connor. Or even a detective agency. He smiled, sealing the lid of the last box. Turnabout, after all...

It could wait a week. In a week he'd be settled in in Paris. He wondered if he'd thought to tell Methos he was going. He didn't think he had. He shrugged mentally. Joe would tell him. Before Joe put the Seacouver bar in other hands and followed him himself. It would serve Methos right to have someone else vanish on him, for a change.

VIII

"What do you mean, he's gone!"

"Gone. Cleared out. Skeddadled," Joe regarded the angry immortal in his bar with what looked suspiciously like amusement, "I went by his place this morning. Completely empty. He didn't mention where he was going?"

MacLeod slammed his fist down on the bar, causing some glasses to hop. "No. I thought I talked him out of it. He told me I had talked him out of it!"

Joe swept the breakables to safer ground. "So he drank your booze and left anyway."

"Yeah," MacLeod swore in languages he hoped Joe didn't speak. "Doesn't he have to stay in touch with you guys?"

Joe didn't pretend that he didn't know who "you guys" meant. He looked regretful. "Not anymore. He quit."

This brought the Highlander up short. "He quit? You mean people can quit?"

If Joe saw that as an insult, he didn't let on. "Occasionally. Particularly if the guy is kind of suspect."

"Suspected of what? They were going to kill you for ..." MacLeod trailed off at the expression on Joe's face.

Joe shrugged it off. "Adam went a little AWOL with Alexa. And then he was the only Watcher involved when the Methuselah Stone went missing who didn't happen to end up dead. He's not suspected of treason. He's suspected of being not very reliable."

"Well, they've got that right, anyway." Dammit! MacLeod began to pace around the empty bar. He came across a chair which had not been upended onto a table, and he swept it up into proper position. He thought furiously. Try as he might to come up with another lead, Dawson remained his best connection. He returned to the bar. "Joe, he stays in touch with you, doesn't he?" He stabbed a finger at the Watcher to emphasize that he didn't mean the organization. "You've been friends for what? Eleven or twelve years?"

Joe shook his head. "Maybe, Mac, maybe. I'm on his Christmas card list. But you know, he didn't stay in touch after ..." there was the barest hesitation as Joe changed his approach to what he was saying, "when he went to Tibet."

"He sends Christmas cards?" MacLeod wondered aloud.

Joe grinned quizzically. "Well, I get one."

"Ordinary Christmas cards?"

Joe gathered his cane and came around to the front of the bar. "No, MacLeod. They're always signed in blood. Big red letters that say Death'." He leaned on a barstool, and the slight lines which were so often around his eyes eased. "And the envelopes - they're always sealed with the Mark Of The Beast."

IX

MacLeod had plenty of time on the airplane to consider Joe's humor. He had not found it funny, and his departure from the blues singer had probably been less than gracious. Every now and then, MacLeod was forced to admit that there was something about being immortal which made certain mortal perspectives incomprehensible to him. How could Joe joke about it? He was familiar with the concept of gallows humor, but this was different. It seemed to take the deaths of others so lightly. He closed his eyes against the memories of the slaughtered settlements Kronos had left behind him on his killing spree across Texas. But of course, closing his eyes only made the images more vivid. The man who had tried to take the bullets for his family, only to have them go right through him. The little girl's broken, abandoned doll, so like her own broken, abandoned body nearby. How different were they from the tribes Methos had helped to destroy thousands of years earlier? Small, isolated, largely unarmed, semi-nomadic settlements. People just trying to eke out a living in an unfriendly land.

MacLeod considered that he seemed to take the importance of life more seriously than did many other people. Any life, but mortal lives particularly so. He had to. He had to because... because ... Is that Scottish guilt I sense? MacLeod squirmed as if his first class seat weren't big enough for him. Because they would die when he wouldn't. Noblesse oblige, or something like that. He downed the rather weak Scotch which the airline served and held the little plastic cup up to the obliging attendant.

Joe had misinterpreted his question, anyway. He was curious about the Christmas cards because he was trying to get a feel for how seriously Methos took his one time conversion to Judaism. Not very, MacLeod was willing to bet. It was hard to imagine Methos taking any religion seriously. But something had spooked Methos, and MacLeod suspected it was something Grossman had said. There are no atheists in foxholes, popular wisdom claimed. How about in death camps?

Well, with a little luck, he would be able to ask Grossman about it soon. MacLeod obediently returned his seat back and tray table to the full upright and locked position for landing. It had not proved difficult to change his travel itinerary. He'd had to change planes in New York anyway.

X

Grossman lived with his wife and an apparent litter of children - mostly boys - in a brownstone in Queens. MacLeod was welcomed into a living room which was really a playroom in disguise. An immense entertainment center bearing a large video screen and a Sony Playstation dominated one corner of the room. Game cartridges, joysticks and other, less easily identifiable plastic weapons of virtual destruction littered the field of combat. One wall was a jungle of glass and plastic encased menagerie. Hamsters, snakes, and fish had permanent homes there, while a ferret and a gecko roamed freely around it all. "The children just love them," Mrs. Grossman beamed as she loaded MacLeod down with chips and Hi C. Under her watchful judgment, interrupted by a number of phone calls, the two little boys who were her nephews - great-nephews, really, she confided in a voice too loud for actual confidence - took out, and introduced the Highland warrior to, each hamster and snake. The fish he was permitted to merely learn the names of, and much excitement accompanied the hunt and capture of the gecko and ferret, both of which MacLeod eventually received with the grace such tribute deserved.

David was still busy in his study, which had its own door to the outside and which served, MacLeod gathered, as a private access to the doctor for his patients. No longer a practicing rabbi, David was now Mel Grossman, Professor of Judaic History at the Jewish Theological Seminary, and had a private counseling practice.

MacLeod did his best to reassure David's wife that he was well attended, and she consented to return to whatever was going on in the kitchen, with only an occasional appearance in the living room. MacLeod settled down to the serious study of the style of mortal combat known as Bushido Blade. The non great-nephews in the litter proved to be friends,
enemies, and neighbors of the great-nephews, who actually lived with their parents next door. They were all self-proclaimed experts at Bushido Blade, as well as at a variety of other virtual combat styles. MacLeod did his tiny teachers proud, and was soon on his way to mastering the game. "Much too good for a grown-up," was the highest praise they would bestow, and MacLeod warmed to receive it. "I wonder if Richie would be insulted if I got him one of these," MacLeod mused.

"Mr. MacLeod, Mr. MacLeod!" Grossman bustled into the room, attracting children and nerf tennis balls. MacLeod rose from the floor, carefully saving his place in the game. Grossman shook hands enthusiastically with the Highlander, "I am so sorry to keep you waiting. You've met the children, I see."

"Please call me Duncan. And yes, I've met the children and the, uh, pets." MacLeod smiled. Encouraged, Grossman moved to the aquarium and wrinkled his nose at the fish. The tribe of little boys had dwindled somewhat while MacLeod had been engrossed, he noticed.

"Did Kevin tell you they're named for the twelve sons of Jacob?"

"Yes, but there seems to be one missing."

"Yes, this household is one fish short of a dozen," Grossman grinned.

"Naphtali! Naphtali's dead!" The younger great-nephew announced, "Joseph killed him!"

"You shouldn't name the dead like that, Bradley."

"Oh, it doesn't count with fish!"

"And we don't know the culprit is Joseph, remember. Innocent until proven guilty. We suspect Joseph because he's the angel fish," Grossman explained, "They have a reputation for aggressiveness. Properly Joseph should be the victim," Grossman twinkled at MacLeod, "but you can't always predict who will be criminal and victim."

MacLeod glanced sharply at the other immortal, but Grossman was off, helping his wife bundle up the remaining Bushido Blade instructors for an evening at the movies. Once the two of them were alone in the uncommonly quiet house, Grossman poured them both glasses of wine.

"You've got a very nice place here," MacLeod told him as he accepted the drink. It was not the decor he meant.

Grossman smiled a smile of grateful contentment. "To me, it is holy ground," he said, simply. MacLeod returned his smile and sipped his wine. He relaxed into the cushions of the couch, and regarded the altar of Bushido Blade. He could have one shipped to Rich. He could have one shipped to the barge, for that matter.

"I wanted to have the both of them here," Grossman murmured.

MacLeod looked up. Then he looked around. True, it was hard to imagine either Cassandra or Methos profaning this place with spilled blood. It was certainly more comfortable than the average church or cathedral. But it wasn't holy ground. "It may be too soon," he suggested.

"Maybe," Grossman allowed, "but Cassandra really needs to speak to him. And it's not a conversation for the telephone."

"Have you heard anything from him?" MacLeod asked without much hope.

Grossman gazed at him for a moment before answering. "Yes, he's in Paris."

"Paris!" MacLeod set his drink down and stood. He couldn't help it. He found he was still furious with Methos for disappearing and refusing to help Cassandra. The least the man could do was be in Bora Bora. Part of him was even envious. How did Methos clear out so easily, journals and all? Just changing residences took MacLeod at least a week. Methos had gone ahead of him to Paris! MacLeod wondered if Joe had known. He paced.

"Something wrong?" Grossman asked.

"It's just that ..." MacLeod stopped, wordless. What was it about the oldest immortal that irritated him so? Aside from the slaughter, torture, and terrorism, that is. The ferret appropriated the warm spot MacLeod had left on the sofa. That was it. "He's like a stray cat I used to feed. When you want him, he's not there, and when you don't want him, he's all over whatever you're doing and you can't get rid of him."

Grossman seemed to find this description of his friend very amusing, and after a moment, so did MacLeod. "You can just stop feeding them, you know," Grossman advised, smiling.

"I know. But then they might starve."

Now Grossman wasn't smiling. "That's right," he said softly.

They were both silent.

"I thought he bolted because you wanted him to meet with Cassandra," MacLeod suggested after a moment, "I'm surprised he called you."

Grossman nodded. "I think you are right. I tried too hard to get him to come here. I even tried using you. I pushed every button I could think of."

"You must have hit one."

"Yes. They are both survivors of holocausts. He understands about the need to remember the dead - to bear witness to the world that these lost lives were real. I tried to show him Cassandra as that kind of a survivor. His obligation to her is his obligation to all the slain. He who saves a single life ...' Anyway, he cut me off and hung up. Then he gave me a rather apologetic call from France. At first I thought he wouldn't tell me where he was, but he did."

"But he wouldn't come here."

"No."

Bastard. He probably had to change planes here.

"I'm afraid I've been so concerned with Cassandra, that I haven't given much thought to his needs." Grossman looked regretful. "Killing is brutalizing to the killer, too."

MacLeod looked at him in open amazement. "You are too generous to him."

"Oh, Mr. MacLeod, are we not all entitled to a little such generosity? You didn't see him as I did, after the war."

This was jolting. You have not seen what we have seen. But it was too much for the Highlander.

"Could you say that of Hitler?"

Grossman's gaze turned hard, but MacLeod met it unflinchingly. The only sound in the room was the gentle bubbling of the fish tank."Yes," he answered.

MacLeod sighed, moved the sleepy ferret, and reclaimed his seat. Let Methos have Paris. They didn't even have to see each other. "You said when I called that there was something I could help you with?"

"Ah. Yes." Grossman stood to pour more wine, "I want you to stand in for Adam."

"Stand in how?" MacLeod frowned as he accepted the refill.

"Are you familiar with the concept of role-playing?"

"Yes. I've been on the stage, too ..." he looked his question at the other man.

"This wouldn't have a script. You listen to Cassandra, and you try to react as you think Adam... Methos would."

Good God in Heaven. "With or without swords?"

Grossman looked exasperated. "No swords, just talking. Here. She has many things she needs to say to him. She needs to learn some things from him, too, but that will have to wait."

"Why can't you do it?"

"I have been. Now I intended to have her speak to him. Also, I have a role in this, as counselor."

"But, Grossman, Mel, I have a role in this too."

"I know you do. But we need someone else to be Adam, and she associates the two of you somewhat closely."

"She does?"

"Yes. If we can't get him, you're the next best thing."

Oh, Great!

"Will you do it? Tomorrow night? I know you need to get on to Paris, soon."

Well, for a chance to see Cassandra, talk to her, maybe explain some things ... Besides, it was awfully hard to say no to Grossman. Something gave Methos the strength to do it; MacLeod didn't have whatever it was. "Yes, of course I will."

XI

MacLeod made himself a late dinner in Connor's kitchen. Connor's Manhattan penthouse was perched like a tower room above a guarded castle, there were so many levels of security to the building, but Duncan had been granted all the necessary keys and watchwords. He had no idea where Connor was, or when he'd be back, but Duncan had no reservations about making himself at home in his kinsman's place. Even with a standing invitation, there was no one else's home Ducan would treat so casually. They both came from a time and place where travelers left their homes well stocked with food and fuel, in case any fellow travelers should need it. And clansmen - well, it was unheard of to begrudge a clansman something he needed. Usually, he didn't even need to ask.

Duncan ate his dinner, thoughtful. In preparation for tomorrow night, Grossman had explained to Duncan some of Cassandra's dilemma. It seems that Methos had been an early experimenter in the science of brainwashing through torture. He also had long pre-dated the good Dr. Pavlov's experiments with conditioning. Some of that, Methos had himself alluded to when Grossman first came to Joe's bar. But the actual brainwashing was news. Methos had tried to force Cassandra to disbelieve her own perceptions and accept her master's version of reality. Most of it, Grossman had assured the almost nauseous MacLeod, Cassandra had overcome herself, with time, but some fundamental questions remained with her. And some of those questions pertained to her own worth and value. It was critical that she learn some truths from her one-time master. MacLeod would not be able to "role-play" any of that.

Connor expected to be gone a while; the heat had been turned off. The place was slow to warm. Duncan finished his meal and climbed into bed, for warmth. Automatically, he tested the draw of his katana before switching off the light. Video game samurai leaped and swung on the insides of his eyelids. "I will not dream of Texas," he told himself .

Instead he dreamed of the Titanic. It must have been the cold.